For how long it has
been quiet, Skeen doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter in a way, they haven’t been
back. The guards were the least evil of the lot. The image of that cold, hard
face peering from underneath the hood at her was much more unsettling and made
her tremble in fear. Rather those ugly rapists than HIM. An uncontrollable
shiver runs down her naked body at the memory, and cold sweat makes her feel
all the more clammy in the dank and damp room.

Skeen tries to
control her shivering and focus. She flexes and unflexes her tired and sore
muscles trying to see if there’s any way she can get herself out of the mess
she’s in. ‘Come on, Erevan,’ she prays silently, ‘Think of how much
entertainment you’d miss if I am killed.’ She doesn’t really think he’ll
answer, but she figures it never hurts to pay some sort of respect to the gods
though if they notice her at all, it’s as plaything, not devout or favored
worshipper.

She falls silent for
a time and just listens, trying to hear if there is anything or anyone nearby.
Time has become meaningless in the darkness of the room. Her elven sight
useless without a mere hint of light, only sounds… always the dripping of
water somewhere beyond the door; a maddening drip that even fails to help
measure time due to its randomness.

Her mind wanders
back for the umpteenth time to the small village where she saw daylight for
the last time. ‘Who were my assailants? Why me?’ Initially she suspected the
merchant in that village – Qheldin’s Mask – who’s purse she ‘liberated’, yet
her captors never mentioned anything about that act. They were only interested
in her body it seemed, and referring to her as a nice gift to be handed over
at the appropriate time – whenever that might be…

As another bout of
shivers runs through her frame, she hears muffled sounds form somewhere beyond
the door and beyond the walls. Indistinguishable, yet different from the
sounds she has come to know in her period of captivity.

Skeen shivers again
and renews her attempts to escape her bonds. Staying here just doesn’t seem to
be an option though it’s also her only option – unless she can get free, that
is. She shakes her head feeling the short golden curls sticking to the clammy
sweat on her forehead. Her blue eyes open and close again, searching for any
small bit of light. She coughs, the dampness getting into her lungs, a rasping
hoarse cough constricted by the scars around her throat. Old scars from old
wounds. She flexes again, her long body more slim than muscular, fair skin
beaded with damp sweat and goose-bumps. She has to get free. Somehow. She has
to get free.

Yet the struggling
is to no avail, the bonds that hold her are too tight and too well placed.
Skeen has the distinct feeling that she’s not the first person to have been
captured in this room… Further contemplating her misery, she hears muffled
sounds of shouting and something that resembles fighting…

Skeen listens
carefully. This could be either good or bad or perhaps no change. There are
often battles between rival gangs and she knows she could become just the
spoils for someone or something else. Still, she has to think that something
else has to be better. Be better than the scaled man.

A fresh and sudden
tremor rips through her body as she shivers uncontrollably in fear. The old
scars on her neck ache with the cold and the memory of other life-threatening
fear. She won’t call out. Not yet. Her voice doesn’t get loud enough to carry
well, but if they get closer…

As Skeen listens,
she thinks she can hear yelling, almost words, but not quite loud enough for
her to distinguish distinct sounds. She raises her voice, yelling in return,
hoarse shouts that hurt her ravaged throat. She curses in elven, the begins to
try and rock the table, yelling in hoarse bursts as she tries to flip the
table over, hoping to make a loud enough noise to be heard.

The elven woman’s
efforts pay off as the table starts to rock first slowly, and then
increasingly wilder. The legs slamming on the floor cause the sound to
reverberate in the small chamber. One of the legs must have been weaker then
the other three, as suddenly the table buckles under the rocking motion and
collapses. As the table almost disintegrates, Skeen is thrown painfully on the
floor, the ropes that bound her cutting painfully in her flesh and a
splintered part of the table penetrating her calf.

Skeen can no more
stop the small cry of pain she makes than she can stop her implacable struggle
to survive. Shrugging free of the now loosened bonds, she grabs one of the
legs of the newly dead table and rises awkwardly to her feet. Unable to walk
with her customary grace, she moves with a limp, clutching the table leg as
weapon, looking for a way out.

Limping to the door,
the moon-elven girl tries to open it, however she finds it locked, and
potentially barred from the outside. As Skeen’s eyes rove searching through
the cell for an aid or another way out, she notices a small, grimy looking
chest on a shelf. The shelf, mounted next to the door is within easy reach.
Apart from the remnants of the broken table, the chest appears to be the only
other item in the cell.

Moving carefully to
the chest, trying to ignore the pain and the fear, Skeen looks at the chest
carefully, trying to determine, as best as she can, whether is holds any nasty
surprises for her should she try to open it. Seeing nothing dangerous save the
dirt on the chest, Skeen tries to open the chest, hoping it will provide a
weapon at the very least.

Surprisingly to the
nimble fingers of the elven woman, the small chest opens easily. Lifting the
lid, she sees that the chest holds two small vials containing some sort of
fluid. The one obviously darker then the other in the minimal light of the
room. “Great,” snarls Skeen, picking up the vials. She carefully un-stoppers
the darker one and sniffs tentatively at it. A hint of some flower, carrots,
as well as something that reminds Skeen of a night under a new moon enter her
delicate nose.

Her nose twitched
and she re-stoppers the darker vial. She then un-stoppers the lighter-colored
one and sniffs at it; a mixed fragrance of summer, and sensual joy wafts out
of the vial in a small cloud of mist that flows from the neck of the vial down
over Skeen’s hand – leaving a pleasant feeling where it covers exposed skin.

As she ponders over
what the contents of the vials could be, the sounds of combat above seem to
have stopped. A weird silence seems to fall briefly, only to be shattered by a
scream of fear, a crash and breaking wood.

…Then there is only
silence…

Skeen quickly
stoppers the second vial as well. Holding both of them carefully in one hand,
she tries to yell as the noise stops. “Is anyone there?” To emphasize her
point, she bangs on the ceiling with the table leg, hoping someone that isn’t
too terribly hostile will hear her.

Rustling and fast
movement above seems to indicate renewed activity, though it doesn’t sound
like combat. Hoping that she can draw the attention of whomever is up there,
Skeen continues to pound and yell from below, though her pounding is louder
than her hoarse yells.

The content of Twilight Dawn are the property and copyright
of J P Hazelhoff,
and are not to be published or redistributed without permission.